Serendipity
by Courtanie
Summary: Angels all have to earn their wings. Kenny McCormick is no exception.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Kenny's POV; this is a drama/tragedy/supernatural story :3**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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><p>Sunlight peeks through my crooked blinds overtop my window, illuminating the dust that's hovering around my head. I watch them dance together and let out a heavy breath, observing them as they scatter at the intrusion of air. They all fall back down to a slowed pace, circling around in the quiet, glimmering in the light. I've always wondered why dust, something considered so dirty and unwanted, could hold such a grace about itself. It's not like that annoying piece of fuzz that occasionally one will see dancing around, it's not like the pesky gnat that won't stop trying to invade your ear canal. It's something completely different. Almost like pieces of glitter wafting around in the way that they do, reflecting the golden light of the sun back around to their observers.<p>

Dirty and unwanted.

People still know that they're there, though. If they look close enough, they see that they're always there. Watching us back, coming and going with our own movements and turning them into their own. We know where they come from, and in the back of our minds, we still always know that they're continuing to waltz around us.

Why can't I be like them? Why can't people know that I'm there, that sometimes I'm gone but they don't forget where I am?

What makes dirt so much better than me?

I sigh, shifting atop my mattress and cracking my neck lazily. So I'm not perfect. So I'm not some graceful particle that floats in the air and glitters. But I'm something. I'm a lot more noticeable than any piece of dust. At least I would hope so.

I stare at my yellow-stained ceiling; marred from the smoking habit I'd picked up when I was fifteen. I remember the first time that I'd really committed myself to picking up a cigarette. Cartman and I had decided that it would be the right thing to do to show that we were just as mature as the seniors of the high school. I can still taste that first inhalation, the way that it overtook my lungs and constricted my throat with its bitter attack. I smirk, remembering how I'd tried to stifle my cough until Cartman started hacking like a lunatic and I followed suit.

He told me that day that that was our step into manhood, that smoking our first real cigarettes together committed us to continue along with each other. The only time we could stop is when the other one did. I agreed, thinking that this was a sign that Cartman really wanted to be closer to me in some way.

He put down the pack not a week after. Told me that he just didn't see it helping me get any recognition with the seniors. After all, he was 'cool' enough already in his own terms to be socially accepted. He left me outside on my own that day, a stale cigarette between my lips as I watched after him for well over ten minutes.

That day was so different for myself and yet so familiar: Me left behind by someone else. I get pushed out of the way to make way for better things for themselves and they pay little to no attention on how it may or may not affect me.

They ignore me. They forget me.

That's been the story of my life for as long as I can remember. My life being nothing but an arid fact that wafts around one's brains whenever they feel like acknowledging me. I'm at the very backs of their minds, I'm only there when it's convenient for them. When they need someone to be their lackey or for someone to just sit there and listen to them rant and not interject on their own.

That's all I am: a fact. A statistic. I'm rarely a name.

When I'm alive, I tend to be with Stan, Kyle, and/or Cartman. Though lately, I've just been hiding to myself, unable to bring myself to really look them in the eyes anymore. They guys are too preoccupied with their own lives; too busy to really even do much more than say 'Hey Kenny' before tuning me out and rambling to each other.

When we were kids, it'd upset me, but not much else. I'd just stand there, happy when I got a few opportune moments to give my input.

Nowadays, I'm more angry than anything. No doubt they continually saw me losing my life, falling out of consciousness time and again as I slipped from this world to the next. Stan and Kyle would shout about it often enough, they had it down to an art.

But when I woke up there was no tearful greetings, no cheers of joy, no hugging or clapping or anything of the sort. I got my typical 'Hey Kenny' before we focused on Stan's football game, on Kyle's fight with his mother, or Cartman's newest way to trick people for money.

It'd become a game; my life was merely one of the annoying pawns that we beat out of our way to make our way towards what mattered to us. Or at least, what mattered to them.

My life mattered to me, more than they could ever seem to realize. They never had any recollection about what had gone on the very day before. They didn't remember my head being impaled with a streetlamp, they couldn't seem to recall the way that my spinal cord was severed when I had that run-in with the crazy knife-wielding lunatic robbing the bank. They could remember the way that Tweek had spilled coffee all over Craig three weeks ago just fine, but when it came to me? No.

No one ever remembered me. Not my family, not my best friends. Only myself. I can remember the pain. I can still see the way that I fell away from the Earth to Kyle's last shouts to God knows who.

Maybe it's a gift, but I call it a curse. Living without being able to live, it's a hard fact that I'm being forced to accept.

I don't want this anymore. I want to be able to either live fully or die once and for all. Death doesn't scare me. I know what awaits me. It's life that pisses me off. It's life that makes me so full of rage and so against waking up every day from my deep sleep. In death, people know that I'm there, people know the hard truth: that I'm dead. At least for the time being.

In life, no one knows me. Everyone sees me, assuming that I'm just a normal kid like the rest of them. They don't run up going 'oh my god, you're better after you were pushed off the roof of the school?' or something like that. They say 'get out of my way', pushing their way past me to get along with their own lives.

Do I clammer for attention? No. Do I yearn for it? To an extent. I don't want for them to run a news story about me. I don't want for them to look at me as though I'm a god because of this stupid ability. However, that's not to say I wouldn't enjoy having my friends come up to me and ask if I'm all right. I certainly wouldn't mind it if my mother made me a cup of tea, if my dad patted me on the back and they both told me they were glad that I'm okay again.

Is it really all that much to ask for?

I cringe as I hear a loud noise escaping from the kitchen. Sounds like someone got hit again. I sigh, slowly forcing myself to sit up. I look hazily over towards my door, hearing another loud bang following suit.

"_Stop it, Stuart_!" Mom yells.

Jesus Christ these people...

I sigh again, running my hand through my hair tiredly. I shake my head a bit, watching as more dust falls in from around the halo of light gleaming into my room. Sometimes I wish I was that insignificant. Able to disappear and reappear upon my own whim as opposed to this middle ground that I seem to be consumed in.

I've learned wishing is pretty much for naught anymore, though.

I get up to my feet, slowly dragging myself over towards the door. I'm not sure why I go out when the two of them are fighting. Maybe it's just for the opportunity to get them to notice me, maybe it's just my curiosity over the subject matter. Maybe it's just because I want them to shut the fuck up once in a while.

I push open the door and step into the hallway, getting hit with the scent of whiskey and cheap beer and scrunching my nose in distaste. I may not be a perfect little sober child, but goddamn that man whom I call my father can fucking drink anyone out of house and home. Hell he's almost done it to my family. Twice. A short walk down the hallway lands me in the kitchen, finding my mom and dad glaring at each other from opposite ends of the room. I step in slowly and watch as my sister Karen crawls out from under the table, looking scared as all hell.

"Kenny," she looks at me and sniffles. She breaks out from under a chair and runs to my side, clinging at my shirt tightly. With Kevin being gone more than half the time, the kid's become attached to me. I'm the only one who won't scream at her or hurt her.

"What, Ken?" Dad spits at me.

"What the hell was that noise?" I ask.

"It's none of your business," he glares.

"Oh like Hell it isn't!" Mom protests. "Your father was pushin' Karen into the counter an' hurtin' her."

Karen digs her face into my waist and I feel my shoulders drop. She's only fucking thirteen. He can't keep doing this to her.

"Why? What'd she do?" I question.

"It doesn't matter," he snaps. Karen jolts at his tone but I'm unphased. I'm more than used to it.

"Go to your room," I tell her quietly, stroking her hair a bit. I bite my lip as I feel how dirty and unkempt it is. We all probably look like that, this house is always too fucking dark to tell for sure though.

"I didn't say she could," Dad growls.

"I. Did," I challenge, pushing her lightly away. "Go," I nod down at her. She looks between the three of us nervously before turning on her heel and speeding down towards her bedroom. I watch after her before looking to find my father standing a foot in front of me, rage burning in his eyes. "What?" I ask.

"No one asked for you to interfere!" he screams.

"Stuart, calm down," Mom tries, walking over and grasping his arm a bit. "It's not worth i-"

"Damn straight this useless piece of shit ain't worth it!" he shoves me a bit. I stumble before looking back and glaring at him darkly.

"I'm not the forty-something year old with nothing to my name but a pile of empty beer bottles," I retort. "Oh, and a piece of shit house."

"More than you could ever amount to and you damn well know it."

"Well that'd just be because of my upbringing," I sneer. "You know, that whole thing about children taking after their parents and shit like that." He rears back his hand and I automatically tense, bracing myself before his hand comes back into my face full force. I stumble back and hit the wall of the doorway, mindlessly bringing one of my hands up and rubbing over the spot he attacked.

"Boys, don't," Mom pleads.

"Shut up, Carol," he spits.

"You don't fucking talk to her like that," I jump. I don't care what he does to me or Kevin, but I know that's not how the fuck you treat a girl. If there was any one thing that I learned from my mother, it was that.

"I'll talk however the fuck I want to talk!" He argues. "I'm the fucking man of this house, what I say fucking goes!"

"You ain't a man," I snarl, finding the accent I inherited from the both of them sneaking its way into my words. "A man doesn't fuckin' sit around and do nothin' and steal the government's money. A man would actually do somethin' with himself, he'd take care of his family instead of tryin' to fuckin' kill 'em."

He grabs my shirt and rips me forward, my mom letting out a sad yelp for me. The jackass and I stare at each other, his nostrils flaring as he breathes furiously. "I've done more for you than you could ever do fer yerself," he spits in my face.

I grit my teeth, raising my hands and shoving him backwards. He looks surprised. I don't usually fight back, I just yell a lot. "You ain't done _anythin'_ useful for me," I hiss. "Ya don't even fuckin' remember I exist half the time! Both of ya!"

I can see my mother's face dropping from behind Dad. "Kenny, that ain't true..." she says softly.

"LIKE HELL IT AIN'T!" I scream, suddenly an overwhelming amount of anger coursing through my system. My fists shake at my sides and I stare at both of them as evilly as I can probably muster. They both look shocked by my outburst. I guess they forget in all my silence that I do have a voice.

"You don't yell at us like that, Kid!" Dad suddenly jerks back into place. "We don't put up with that kind of crap!"

"Oh fuck off," I growl. "Ya both fuckin' forget about all of us. Ya forget Kevin, ya forget Karen, and most of all, ya forget me! Ya never even notice when I come back after bein' gone! Ya just keep on drinkin' and bitchin' and randomly gettin' angry for no reason! How the hell can ya tell me to not lose it at the both of ya when ya can't even remember yer own goddamn kids?" I scream.

"Kenny, honey," Mom says, stepping nearer to me. I flinch and move away from her. I don't want her to touch me. I'm liable to completely lose it if she does. "Take a deep breath and sit down."

"No!" I protest, pointing accusingly at Dad. "Why don't ya ever tell him to do that, huh?" I yell at her. "Ya just let him do whatever he pleases to us and you just sit back and look the other way. Yer just as bad as him!" She looks nearly devastated by this and I feel just a pang of guilt. I've always made an effort to not upset her any more than she already is. She puts up with more of Dad than any of us do.

I look down as my arm is grabbed and Dad pulls me forward. I barely have time to blink before I hear my mother scream and feel a loss of ground underneath me. I look to find myself flying towards our dinner table. I land on top of it, my head thudding loudly against the old wood. I hear several crashes, leaning up with a groan and glancing down, finding several of our cheap plates in pieces on the floor. I shakily roll off of the table, landing on my feet and rubbing my hand through my hair where my head slammed into the table, looking up and glaring at my dad.

"Still wanna be a little smartass?" He dares.

"Fuck. You," I spit, grabbing my mom's coffee cup from off the table and wailing it at him. It smacks into his face, dropping onto the floor and breaking as he screams in anger.

"Oh God," Mom murmurs, looking between the two of us. "Kenny, please," she bites her lip. "Just stop, both of you."

"Stay OUT of it, Carol!" Dad screams, pushing her back against the wall. She shakily looks between the both of us, sliding down to the floor and grasping at her hair between her fingers. I can make out the faint sight of her mumbling and can't help but roll my eyes. She's praying. If only she knew how sucky her God really was.

"You need to watch yerself, ya little shit," Dad snarls, coming at me again. I grab the platter from beside me and swing it at his head. He catches my wrist and squeezes my bones and I groan, dropping the platter and listening to it shatter on the floor. "You live in my fucking house, you fuckin' live by MY rules, you get that?" He shakes me roughly.

I sneer, ripping back from him and taking my arm back. "Your rules, huh?" I drawl. "What? Don't move or say anything and don't eat because you need the money to drink yourself stupid? Guess what, Pops, you're already past the line of being stupid."

I can see the rage continuing to build in his eyes and I just glare back at him. I can feel Mom staring between the two of us, looking in terror that one of us will kill the other. Not like it'd matter if Dad killed me. He's done it who the fuck knows how many times already.

"As much as we do for you, ya really think that yer in any position to be yellin' like that, Ken?" He growls.

I laugh mockingly. "What do you do for me, Pops? Please._ Enlighten_ me," I snarl. "Don't let us eat, beatin' us like yer a fuckin' boxer or some shit? Forgettin' about us completely? I mean, geez, do you even realize when I'm dead or what?"

"The hell are you talkin' about, Kid?" he blinks at my last remark.

I clench my fists furiously. I knew it. No. One. Remembers.

"Yeah, news flash for you idiots," I scream at the both of them. "I die. A fucking lot. On a daily fucking basis! But do you ever remember? Nooo you're too busy inhaling your beer like it's fucking air or taking pills," I glare at my mom, who shrinks down slightly.

"Kenny...what are you talking about?" Mom asks quietly.

"You two are fucking stupid, ya know that?" I yell. "GOD! I'm gone for hours, fucking DAYS at a time sometimes, but do you ever notice? No! Of fucking course not! What the fuck do you care about the wellbein' of yer kids after all, you fuckers?" I pant, completely blinded in my rage. I've never lost it at them like this before...No turning back now.

"You fucking moron," Dad shouts back. "If ya were dead, ya wouldn't be HERE would you?"

"That's the theory, isn't it? And I'm sure that even if that were the case, you wouldn't notice either way because you don't give a flying shit about any of us no matter what!"

"Ken, please," Mom pleads. "What are you talking about? We love you."

"Well you two have a fucking funny way of showing it," I mutter, starting to walk to the doorway. Dad puts his arm in front of me and I glare up at him from under my bangs.

"I didn't say we were finished," he frowns.

"I. Did," I grab his arm and throw it back into him out of my way. "I'm finished with this conversation and I'm fuckin' finished with you. I ain't comin' back this fuckin' time."

"Kenny, what are you doing?" Mom scrambles up off the floor and walks towards me. I shrug off her touch on my shoulder and glare at them both.

"I'm leavin'. I'll find somewhere to stay. I'm done with this fuckin' family. I'll find someone who fucking remembers me without automatically associating me with the term 'shithead'," I sneer at Dad before turning on my heel and walking away.

"Kenny, stop!" Mom cries after me.

"Just let 'im go," I hear Dad mutter to her before I grab a hold of the front doorknob and rip it open. I hop down the cinderblock steps and listen to the door swing shut behind me. I take a deep breath, my anger feeling somewhat lifted upon leaving that fucking hellhole.

I turn to my right and start heading back over the railroad tracks beside my house. Well, _their_ house. That place never felt like a home to me.

As I walk over to the other side of the tracks, my shoulders sink lightly as they tend to do. Looking at all these nice homes, seeing all the families talking, eating, just fucking being a family. It sickens me in ways that nothing else can.

Anger, jealousy, just a yearning to be like them...everything falls on top of me at once and I don't know what to do to help myself out of it.

I glance a bit up the street, glaring slightly as I see Stan's house in my view. Stan has a bit of an oddball family like I do. Well, all four of us have strange ones.

His dad is an alcoholic just like mine, so they see each other a lot. His mom is cool though. Last I heard his sister was far away, which Stan couldn't be happier about. I guess that he doesn't need the older sibling for protection like I once needed Kevin and now Karen needs me.

Kyle's family is just the same as it's always been: Quiet father, insane mother, and then the two Brof boys themselves. Ike and him are still super close, even if they do have their moments of pure sibling rivalry. I envy that in a way. I never really got that kind of relationship with my brother and sister. We were too busy huddling in corners to argue over what video game console was better.

Then there's Cartman. Cartman I can relate to on the mere basis that he's alone most of the time. He has his mom, but she's always out getting screwed by some random guy, leaving Cartman by himself for the most part. He never seems to mind it though, he's never minded having the house to himself. I wish I could have that. I've gotten used to the loneliness, but that doesn't mean I _want_ it.

I sigh, dragging my fingers up through my hair. I turn off the sidewalk and slowly cross the street headed towards Starks.

Those three are my best friends, I would be completely lost without them...but it makes me angry that I'm so attached to them.

Not once do they mention my being dead, being just missing from their lives. If one of them disappeared, I'd be all over their asses asking questions like 'where were you?' and 'do I need to kill anyone?'

But no. I don't get that from them. Stan's too busy with Wendy and sports, Cartman's too busy not caring and Kyle's too focused on studying to really notice.

As much as I fucking hate to admit it: It hurts. It hurts like a bitch.

I remember being a kid, directly telling them about my 'gift'. And they STILL forgot. I shot myself in the face and they still couldn't remember.

What is it about me that makes me so insignificant that they can't even remember me blowing my brains out? How can they just walk away from my body and forget the blood spatter? How is that even conceivable? From Cartman, yeah I could expect that.

But Stan and Kyle? No fucking way. Stan's a peace loving hippie and Kyle's too sensitive for his own good. They wouldn't just_ forge_t it without there being something that's making this happen.

But I couldn't tell anyone what that something was if my life depended on it.

No pun intended.

"DUDE, LOOK OUT!" I hear someone scream.

I jerk my head around to the side just in time to see a baseball bat flying at my skull. I can't react quickly enough and it slams into my temple with the tip.

I collapse onto the ground, seeing people coming up and looking down at me in terror. What does it matter...they'll walk away and forget anyway. My body twitches and I'm overcome with numbness, vaguely hearing them saying to get help.

Don't bother. Nothing will happen anyway. I'll die, come back, and no one will care.

I close my eyes as it becomes too bothersome to keep them pried open. My body is becoming so accustomed to this. I'm so resilient to the pain anymore...

I choke lightly, coughing up what I can only guess is spinal fluid before everything starts growing quieter. Everything around me fades into nothingness as I re-enter such a familiar atmosphere. From here until I live again, I'll feel nothing but peace, only to be awoken once again into my own personal Hell.

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><p><em><strong>AN: Next chapter things get supernaturalish \o/**_

_**Thanks for R&Ring :3**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: And here things get weird and complicated.**_

_**Enjoy :)**_

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><p>I clench my fingers lightly, expecting to feel the smooth sheets atop of my bed per usual, instead feeling something loose and hard. I furrow my brows, groaning slightly before forcing myself to pry my eyelids open. My blurring vision shows me a mess of grey beneath my hands until I blink a couple of times, finding myself on a pile of gravel.<p>

"What the hell..." I whisper, slowly raising my throbbing head.

"Why yes, very good," a voice speaks overtop of me. A voice that I haven't heard for a few months.

I groan again, pushing myself up with my arms onto my knees and rubbing my aching head. I look up through my narrowed eyes and see a black-clothed figure in front of me.

"Damien?" I question mindlessly.

"'Sup, McCormick?" he smirks down at me.

I look around a bit as my senses fall back onto me, finding myself at the gates of Hell. "Dude what the...why am I here?" I ask, looking at him questionably.

"Need to talk to you. There a problem with that?" he asks, extending his hand down towards me. I take it and he pulls me back onto my feet. I notice a slightly devious gleam in his eyes and frown. It's never good when the son of Satan looks like that.

"I'm not sure yet. What is it you need to talk about?"

"Oh you know, the typical things. Beer, sports, weather, killing you for good. Ya know. The norm."

I blink at his last statement and raise my brow. "Wait...what?"

"Let's walk," he starts walking from the gate down the path in front of it. I watch after him for a moment before hurrying to catch up with him, my curiosity rising a mile a minute.

"Did...did you seriously just say I could die for real?" I ask, my deadened heart pounding in astonishment.

"Perhaps," he nods. "Tell me, McCormick, why do you think that you're here?"

"Because...you brought me here?" I guess.

"No, you died today with a feeling of hatred in your heart. You were angry when you died, so you came back here. You should catch on by now, I mean, come on," he smirks at me.

I pout lightly. "So I never noticed the rules. Can you blame me?"

"No, I suppose not," he shrugs. "I would certainly hate to be in your position, to be honest."

"Well I'm glad to know that I'm not the only one who thinks this whole thing is a load of bullshit," I roll my eyes.

"Ken, let me ask you a question," he starts, both of us pausing as a couple of demons cross in our path. "What is it you hate about your constant deaths? Is it the fact that you're different?"

"No, it's the fact that I come back to a world that never notices I'm gone," I mutter, kicking at some loose coal along the walkway. "I may as well have just gone to the bathroom with the way that people remember my existence. I don't even know how they remember me when I'm alive."

"It very easily could be such a part of their routine that they block out the details," he says. "It's not necessarily that they're trying to forget you. And I don't think that the problem so much lies within them as it does with you."

"Damien, what the fuck are you talking about?" I sigh impatiently. "What's with this all of a sudden? Usually we just throw back a few beers and talk about people we hate. Why are you bringing this out of nowhere?"

He's silent for a few moments before sighing. "I was talking to my father about this the last time that you came down here. We've figured out that there's a hell of a problem regarding your soul."

"Oh no, really? Ya think?" I drawl sarcastically. He shoots me a look with those blood red eyes and I press my lips together firmly.

He turns back and continues, "You're at a complete unrest," he explains. "Your soul honestly can't tell whether you're dead or alive. You don't know if this is real or if everything is merely a dream, or more in your case, a nightmare."

"Ain't that the truth," I roll my eyes.

"You have two options, McCormick," he states. "My father and I discussed that you can either live out your days as you are now; dying day in and day out, until you finally figure out how to make your soul easy and die naturally." I scowl slightly at that. "Or," he proceeds, noticing my tenseness, "You can take the opportunity to earn your wings."

I raise my brow. "Earn my wings? What? Bat wings to fly around this dump?"

He shakes his head. "No, angel wings."

"Thought Mormons were the only ones who got into Heaven."

"Mm, there are special exceptions," he smirks. "And should you accept this...we'll call it a quest, then you would earn your spot in God's domain," he shudders lightly at the mention of His name.

"Dude," I start lowly. "I. Want. To. Die. You have no idea how much fucking torture this whole fucking thing is."

"McCormick before you jump to conclusions, you need to consider one factor," he warns. "If you do this, then you are going to die young. Very very young. If you keep on like you are now, your soul could wait to find its peace once you figured things out on your own. If you do this, you may never truly know happiness."

"Trust me, getting the fuck off of Earth away from people who don't give two shits about me is close enough to an ideal of happiness in my book," I frown.

He looks skeptical but lets out a sigh. "All right, well, hear out what must be done first before you set your mind on anything."

Too late for that.

"Keep in mind please that this task isn't going to take only a few hours or days," he says. "It's going to take over a year. One year and forty-seven days to be precise."

I cock my head. "Why so exact?"

He smiles a bit, "How many feathers do you think are on an angel's wings, McCormick?"

I recoil a bit from the suddeness of his question. "Uhhh 2,564?" I shrug, really having no clue.

"Not nearly," he smirks. "824 feathers total. That's 412 feathers on each wing."

I raise my brow. "Okay..."

"A lot can be accomplished in 412 days, McCormick," he walks away again. I follow him at his slow pace and try to wrap my brain around his statement. "People are born, people die, people get engaged and then married, people can be diagnosed with an illness and have it cured. It's a lot of time where a lot of things can happen."

"But what does that have to do with angels?" I blink.

"What is it that makes an angel, do you think, McCormick?"

"Good...deeds and worshipping God?" I shrug.

"Mmm close," he nods. "Actually the worshipping thing? It's a minor part. Really, you can just say you're a Christian and never attend a single sermon and you could still get into Heaven if you played all your cards right."

"Really?"

"Oh yes," he nods. "Man has changed the image of..._God_ into some egotistical bastard, have they not? Really, He just wants people to be well behaved. Goody little two shoes pricks," he rolls his eyes. I can't help but smirk at him. Must be killing him to have to speak somewhat kindly of the enemy of his Father.

"But what does that have to do with anything?" I ask again.

"People are born good," he states. "Every one of them. Hitler was, Stalin was, President Bush was. Even though I'm more than convinced that man was hatched on another planet," he rolls his eyes. I snigger lightly before we both look at each other in seriousness again. "When people turn old enough to form their own coherent thoughts, to figure things out for themselves and make their own stands on things, they're given a time limit."

"Time limit?"

"Well, not so much a limit because it'll last throughout their entire lifetime. However, everyone's lifespan is different. So it very well could be considered a limit."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I insist, my head hurting slightly from all this random spewing of angels and babies and Hitler.

"412 days of your life, McCormick. 412 days to prove to God and to the world that you are worthy enough to enter Heaven's gates. Most people can very easily accomplish this. A little over a year of just spastic good deeds here and there. Just making people smile, making them happy, or just overall making some kind of contribution that doesn't negatively affect society."

"So...you earn your wings that way?" I blink.

"Very good," he nods. "But let me tell you something that no one really knows. Those feathers on an angels wings? Those are not merely feathers, McCormick. Those are pieces of your very soul."

"How so?"

"They are reminders of who you are, symbols of what you stood for when you lived your time out on Earth. Every laugh that you gave to someone, every smile that you were able to procure out of another person. They're all right there, they're what make up the feathers of your wings."

"Wow," I murmur, looking at the ground a bit. "Little...philosophical isn't it?"

"Spiritual, actually, but yes," he chuckles. "A bit like a cheesy movie thrown together by the church groups, hm?"

"But...why don't you earn them all then?" I ask. "Why don't you earn all 824 of them instead of only half of them?"

"Each feather is a reflection of the other," he states. "Because in the end, it's both sides of the whole that make you fly. If one was to only earn say, 427 feathers if it was done in that sense, there would be no balance. Each feather is earned in a pair so that no one is greater than the other on the other side."

"...Oh," I blink again. "What if...what if a kid dies? Ya know...before their wings are earned?"

He grimaces and points back towards the gates. "They aren't sent to Hell, they're reincarnated," he elaborates. "Usually the time to start earning your wings starts at about age five or six. If that kid only lives another few months after their time is decided, they're sent to be sent back up to try again."

"Better than what I thought I guess," I wince. "But then why are there so many people in Hell? Did none of these people earn their wings?"

"Angels aren't there merely through good deeds," he explains. "It's consistent good behavior, caring, trust, etc. While one wrong move such as say...hurting someone's feelings can offset you, it won't take away your feathers or make you start again or anything of the sort. But if you die, and that person's feelings are still hurt from your action, then the weight of what you did will bear down on your wings and make you unable to fly."

"Lame," I mutter reflexively.

"Indeed," he nods.

"But...then what about me?" I look at him. "I've been around for more than just a year...why haven't I had my chance yet?"

"Because your lifespan is merely a day at a time," he states. "Though you get progressively older, your internal clock sets back to midnight, so to speak, each time that you die and come back. But my father and I discussed it, even going so far as to ask that bastard up there," he jerks his head towards the sky, "if it would be acceptable for you to become the exception to the rule."

"Why do you want me to die?" I ask warily.

"You're fucking with the system, that's why," he glares slightly. "People here in Hell see you come and leave again and they want to know how you manage it, they constantly ask for the secrets to your immortality. We can't have people thinking that anyone other than the gods themselves are the immortals. Otherwise things will be thrown into chaos."

"Well sorry," I sneer. "Not like I chose this, ya know."

"Well now you can choose to fix things," he states, a little softer. "We would give you the 412 days. But only those days, to earn your wings. Should you complete your task, you will die of natural causes and your soul will ascend to Heaven for the rest of eternity. Should you fail, you will remain as you are now, dying day in and day out until you finally find the way for yourself to make yourself at peace."

"I'm guessing there's no redos if I fuck up, hm?"

"No," he shakes his head. "One chance, that's all we'll give you. The same as any other person on Earth."

I bite my lip slightly, thinking through what he's told me a bit. "412 days of just being nice?" I ask.

"Pretty much," he shrugs. "But McCormick, we've been watching you. You harbor a lot of anger and hatred towards those closest to you. They can turn into your downfall of your task if you don't find a way to treat them better."

"I can put on a hell of a front should I want to," I shrug. I let out a deep sigh before smirking at him. "I'm in."

"Are you absolutely positive?" He asks, looking at me seriously. "McCormick, as I said, you may never find out what makes you happy. You could die and truthfully be nothing but a shell of an angel with immense amounts of regret that you didn't live your life through."

"My life has been nothing but abuse and anger and frustration," I narrow my eyes at him.

"What of your friends?" he asks darkly. "What of Stan, Kyle, and Cartman? Do you really think that they hate you?"

"They don't remember me unless it's convenient," I roll my eyes.

"Now that's not entirely true," he raises his brow. "They remember you, they think about you a lot. However, the only thing that they forget is _why _you're gone. And as I said, it could just be a matter that it's so built into their subconscious that they don't even question it. It's like breathing for them, McCormick. If they stop to think about why you're gone, all they can do is stand there in confusion. If they just step back and let things happen on their own, things flow naturally and they don't need to worry about it."

I pause for a moment, letting this sink in before narrowing my eyes a bit. "I. Want. To. Die," I say firmly. "If they have problems with it then they can tell me themselves."

We stop and stare at each other and he looks like he's about to retort before he just sighs and shakes his head. "You're arrogant, McCormick. This is going to be a lot harder for you than you seem to think." He reaches his hand out and places it over my chest. I yelp as a sharp sting slices over my skin. He retracts his hand and I immediately pull my sweatshirt back from my skin, finding a long black line over my chest.

"Damien, the hell!"

"That's your marker," he states evenly. "For every two feathers you earn, a barb will be added to the mark. Once the feather is complete, you'll begin your ascension." I look up at him, dropping the fabric back onto my body and nodding slowly.

"What is it exactly that I need to do?" I ask, a bit wary of even starting this task in a way.

"Make people happy, make them realize that you're more than just the kid who disappears. Occasionally I'll find something for you to do and that'll be your task for the day, but for the most part, it's all gonna be on you. Just be a good person, McCormick. Things will start seeming a lot easier as time wears on."

"Make em happy, then get the fuck away from em, got it," I nod excitedly.

He smirks. "Don't look so sure of yourself, Ken. This is going to be much harder than you think."

"What, ya think I don't know how to be nice or somethin'?" I cross my arms and pout a bit.

"No, I'm just saying that you're going to be a completely different seeming person when you start on this. People are going to look at you differently and you'll do the same to them. A little kindness will reveal things to you that you never would have conceived before. Just keep that in mind. You may end up changing your mind on this deal just yet."

"I highly doubt that," I scoff. "I'm ready to get away from those assholes," I mutter.

"Remember," he chuckles. "Play nice and you probably shouldn't call them names if you want to succeed at this." He places his hand over my eyes and I gulp lightly at the low tone of his voice. "I'm sending you back to Earth now. You have your task. I'll be checking in on you now and then. Good luck, McCormick. Just keep in mind that this is the only chance you'll be getting."

I don't have the chance to so much as respond before my vision is overtaken with a blinding light, my body shaking slightly as I begin that familiar descent from wherever my soul is, crashing back down to Earth in the form of my newly-renewed body. I can feel myself slamming down onto my bed, my legs flailing lightly before my exhaustion overcomes me completely, the warmth beginning to pick back up in my limbs and along my face before I fade back off into darkness.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: I know, it was a lot of dialogue, lolz T-T**_

_**Sorry bout that but...yeah.**_

_**Thanks for R&Ring! :3**_


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